Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself.  She had tried teaching, she had devoted herself for a time to work in a College Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked of learning telegraphy, she had been interested in women’s clubs, in a civic club, in the political education of women, and was now a professor of economics in a girl’s college.

It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, in one of the old ruts, feeling his way, like a true American, into the career that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakened American woman, who does not know exactly what she wants.  To be sure, she wants everything.  She has recently come into an open place, and she is distracted by the many opportunities.  She has no sooner taken up one than she sees another that seems better, or more important in the development of her sex, and she flies to that.  But nothing, long, seems the best thing.  Perhaps men are in the way, monopolizing all the best things.  Celia had never made a suggestion of this kind, but Philip thought she was typical of the women who push individualism so far as never to take a dual view of life.

“I have just been,” Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was an active club woman, “out West to a convention of the Federation of Women’s Clubs.  Such a striking collection of noble, independent women!  Handsome, lots of them, and dressed—­oh, my friend, dress is still a part of it!  So different from a man’s convention!  Cranks?  Yes, a few left over.  It was a fine, inspiring meeting.  But, honestly, I could not exactly make out what they were federating about, and what they were going to do when they got federated.  It sort of came over me, I am such a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in this world with no object except the doing of it.”

A more recent letter:—­“Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep the little thread-and-needle and candy shop in Rivervale?  Such a dear, sweet, contented old soul!  Always a smile and a good word for every customer.  I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy in the dish that she could afford to give for a little fellow’s cent.  It never came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in the world.  I remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her.  Well, I am getting into a frame of mind to want to be an Aunt Hepsy.  There is so much sawdust in everything—­No, I’m not low-spirited.  I’m just philosophical—­I’ve a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let the world see what a real useful life is.”

And here is a passage from the latest:—­“What an interesting story your friend—­I hope he isn’t you friend, for I don’t half like him—­has made out of that Mavick girl!  If I were the girl’s mother I should want to roast him over the coals.  Is there any truth in it?